


Taste

by sherlockholmesconsultingvampire



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Fingering, First Time, Fluff, Human Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, Rimming, Smut, Tiny bit of Angst, Vampire AU, Vampire John, Vampires, Virgin Sherlock, blink and youll miss it nipple play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:50:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5384804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire/pseuds/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is scared that Sherlock will learn his secret... but perhaps it's not as much of a secret as he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably full of mistakes, so I apologise in advance. If you do see any, no matter how small, feel free to comment and tell me and I'll get it fixed right away!

"Keep down, and stay here, I'll go around," Sherlock whispered into the darkness, his eyes not yet adjusted to the pitch black of the room. 

 

John, of course, could see Sherlock perfectly, his vision better in the dark than any humans could possibly be; not that Sherlock knew that, and not that John had any plans of ever telling him, unless he wanted to be the main subject of Sherlock's everlasting experiments. He'd also never tell him about how the gun he held in his hand was completely unnecessary too. About how he could quite easily walk up to the man they'd been tailing for the better part of two hours and subdue him in seconds; even kill him if he wanted to, rip out his throat before he was even seen. But no, Sherlock was thankfully ignorant of John and his... condition, and that's the way it was going to stay. He valued his friendship with Sherlock more than anything else, and he didn't want anything to jeopardise what they had.

 

Which is why when Sherlock crawled over to the other side of the closed office and knocked into a chair on his way, causing the man who was currently rummaging through the desk of his wife's lover to stop and raise his gun towards Sherlock, John acted before his brain kicked into gear, jumping with preternatural speed towards Sherlock and covering the detective with his own body as a loud echoing bang filled the silence of the room. 

 

Sherlock hit the ground with a pained grunt as the weight of John knocked the breath out of him, and the man stared at the both of them in horror, throwing the gun to the floor with wide, startled eyes and running towards the exit just as a flash of police lights lit up the room in red and blue. John rolled off of Sherlock, noticing the blood on the detective's shirt as a wave of panic hit him. His hands grabbed for Sherlock's coat, pulling it open frantically to check where the blood was coming from, relieved to find that Sherlock was uninjured and the blood had soaked through his own clothes onto Sherlock's. He mentally cursed himself for forgetting to feed during the case -he was getting just as bad as Sherlock it seemed- and quickly turned his head to rip open the skin on the palm of his hand with razor sharp teeth. 

 

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered under his breath, and for a moment John thought he was talking to him until he looked back at the detective and saw him moving towards the gun on the ground. "If by some miracle he's managed to get past the police downstairs, they'll soon have him after this. No gloves and leaving the weapon behind, how very thoughtful of him."

 

John started to stand, wincing as he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. _Ah, so that's where the bullet went._ "Shit," he breathed, holding his hand against his chest and pushing to his feet. He needed to get home, and fast, before Sherlock realised what was actually wrong. He took a few steps and stood over the detective who was now bent over and looking through the drawer that the man had been in. 

 

Sherlock looked up when he heard John's ragged breathing, his face showing a rare expression of concern. "What's wrong, are you hurt?" 

 

John laughed humourlessly, holding his hand out towards Sherlock to show him the blood collecting in his palm. "Caught in on a sharp bit of desk, it's not too bad, but I need to go home and clean it up. Can you take care of the statement?"

 

Sherlock's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing for a split second as he nodded at John. "Of course, I'll meet you back at the flat." 

 

John turned to leave, only to be stopped by a hand on his arm. "Maybe you should go to the hospital, quite a lot of blood there for a small cut. You'll probably need stitches. I should come with you..." 

 

"No," John cut him off, a little harsher than he'd meant to. He cleared his throat and smiled apologetically. "No, I'm fine, really Sherlock. Thank you, but I'm just going to sort it out at home. If it needs stitches I can do it myself. I'll see you back at the flat."

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John was halfway down the stairs before he knew what to say. He sighed and waited for the blond to reach the bottom, then made his own way down the stairs to talk to Lestrade.

 

x

 

It took twenty three minutes to get back to Baker Street from the office, and John felt every one of them as he sat in the back seat with his hand pressed against his abdomen where the bullet lay. He needed to remove it as fast as he could and feed, otherwise he'd bleed out.

 

Contrary to what films and books depicted, vampires weren't quite the immortal creatures they were made out to be, and could easily die if they were unable to heal themselves. John knew that if he didn't get human blood soon, he'd pass out and end up in the hospital, where they'd send him for tests and find out that he wasn't quite the ordinary human he pretended to be. 

 

He'd be experimented on, probably sent to somewhere like Baskerville, and he'd never be able to have a normal life again. 

 

They'd take him away from Sherlock. 

 

He absolutely couldn't let that happen. 

 

When the taxi pulled up on the curb outside 221, John climbed out and passed the driver a £20 note, telling him to keep the change when he saw the red smear of blood on the seat that had dripped down and soaked through his clothes. He shut the door quickly and pulled out his key, fumbling with it for a moment with shaky hands before he finally stepped inside, talking a deep, shuddering breath as he climbed the stairs.

 

Heading for his bedroom, John pulled off his blood stained coat and tossed it into the laundry basket in the corner of the room, before moving towards the bed and opening the panel underneath the headboard. He'd bought the bed especially to keep Sherlock from finding the blood bags he kept in the flat, and thankfully the detective hadn't found it in one of his searches of John's room, thorough as they were.

 

The panel came away with a click, and John reached to grab a few of the bags from underneath. He swore when he pulled his hand back with the entire contents of the panel.

 

There was one bag. _Shit._

 

It wouldn't be enough, he needed at least three to replenish the blood he'd lost and heal himself, and there was no way he'd be able to get any more from the hospital tonight, not in the state he was in. His only option was to hunt, and he hadn't fed from a human in years. Not since he'd been back from Afghanistan and secluded himself in the tiny bedsit five years ago. 

 

Not since before he'd met Sherlock.

 

Clutching the blood bag in his hands, John walked slowly down the stairs, his mind whiring as he tried to think of some other way to get what he needed. There were places he could go, but they cost a lot of money and he simply couldn't afford that option. He could drain the one bag he had and try to get to the hospital for more, but he'd likely pass out before he got there, or worse, whilst he was there, and the last thing he needed was for someone to look too closely at him.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the dull sound of a key in the front door, and the very familiar tread of Sherlock's shoes as the detective took a few steps into the flat. John stilled in the main doorway of the flat, holding his breath as the sounds of Sherlock drew closer, and John felt a raw panic bubbling to the surface; 

 

Sherlock couldn't be here, not now. There was no way John would be able to hide this from him, and it would only be a matter of time before Sherlock had him taken away to some secret lab, cut open and ripped apart to see what made him what he was.

 

The creak of the bottom step spurred John into action, and he ran to the bathroom, locking the door behind him and sliding down it to sit on the floor with a shaky exhale. He listened to the sounds outside the door; the tap of Sherlock's feet on the floor; the shuffling of his coat as he turned the corner; the quickened breathing as he approached the bathroom door.

 

"John?" Sherlock called through the door, his hand pressing against the wood. "John, are you okay?"

 

John looked down at the bag in his hands; he hadn't realised how hungry he was until his fangs had descended. He lifted the bag to his lips, ignoring Sherlock in the childish hopes that he would soon give up and leave him alone, and ripped open the bag, wincing at the bland taste that bagged blood offered. He grimaced as he drank down the contents, cursing when the effect was almost non existent. 

 

A dry sob escaped his lips as he pulled himself to his feet, throwing the empty bag into the sink and unbuttoning the ruined shirt that clung to his skin uncomfortably. The bullet wound was still bleeding slowly, and his vision was starting to blur with the blood loss; he needed to remove the bullet so his body could attempt to heal, otherwise if he managed to feed properly with it still inside him, it would heal over and he'd have to cut it out. Not something he planned to do twice; he'd learned his lesson in Afghanistan.

 

Gripping onto the sink basin, John leaned over and pulled out the first aid kit from the bathroom cupboard, hoping that the long handled tweezers were still in there after Sherlock's last incident which involved going through a closed window, smashing it to pieces and getting some nasty glass splinters in his arm. It took over an hour -and a lot of restraint on John's part- to pick out the tiny shards of glass and clean Sherlock's bloodied arm. John sometimes thought on how living with Sherlock was one of the best ways to practice a vampire's self control; after all, the man was always bleeding from something or other.

 

John pulled out the tweezers with a thankful smile, sighing when Sherlock banged on the door and raised his voice.

 

"John! I can hear you moving around in there, open the door! John!" 

 

"Sherlock," he practically growled, "I'm fine, please just leave."

 

Sherlock lowered his head with a humourless laugh. "I'm not going anywhere. Please, let me in. I can help."

 

Yes, I'm sure you can, John's mind supplied unhelpfully, gritting his teeth as his fangs extended at the thought of exactly how Sherlock could help. _Imagine the taste of his blood, feel it slipping down your throat like wine. I bet he tastes exquisite..._

 

"Sherlock!" John yelled, his voiced laced with panic at the imagine of Sherlock lying beneath him, arms pinned above his head as John leaned down and sank his fangs in slowly to that perfectly pale throat. "Please, get out! Please... I don't..." 

 

_...want to hurt him? Yes you do, you've thought about it before, haven't you? Pushing him up against the wall and taking him, all of him, until he breaks beneath you..._

 

"STOP!" John screamed, dropping the tweezers and fisting his hands in his hair as the blood lust tried to overtake him. He could hear Sherlock's hitch of breath outside the door, his pulse quickening as John stared at the warped reflection of himself in the mirror, and Sherlock heard the shatter as John's fist connected with the glass. 

 

John stared down into the sink, the white porcelain streaked with crimson as blood dripped down from his broken knuckles. He blinked, his breathing ragged as he swayed on his feet, falling to the ground with a thud when his legs gave out beneath him.

 

The second Sherlock heard the noise, he pulled back from the door and slammed into it fiercely, the sound of splitting wood filling the small room as he pushed the broken door aside, ignoring the sharp pain in his arm where he'd connected with the door. His breath left him in a sharp exhale when he saw John lying on the tiled floor, blood splattered around him and his face contorted in pain.

 

"John," he breathed, falling to his knees, uncaring when the broken glass on the floor dug into his skin painfully. "What do I need to do? John, tell me what to do."

 

John's eyes were unfocused, tears threatening to spill as he lifted an arm towards Sherlock to push the detective away. "Leave, please. I can't hurt you, I couldn't... You have to go..."

 

Sherlock frowned and looked down to where John's hand rested against his stomach, and the dried trail of blood that had ran down to the waistband of his jeans. 

 

He moved to lift John's hand away, swearing when he saw the bullet wound underneath.

 

"No, John..." Sherlock looked around the room frantically, looking for the first aid kit and spotting the tweezers on the ground next to John. He picked them up and moved to settle closer to the wound leaning over John as he tried to remember what he'd read about removing bullets. "Why didn't you tell me? You should have told me..." he said quietly, his voice strained as he choked back a sob.

 

"Couldn't... can't... no hospitals..." John muttered, fighting to stay concious. He felt Sherlock moving beside him, and then a sharp ache as a hand was pressed down around the wound. He tried to lift his head to see what Sherlock was doing, only to fall back down with a cry of agony when paralysing pain exploded through his body and his vision went white.

 

When he came to, it was to Sherlock leaning over him, one hand pressed down on his abdomen to stop the blood that was now flowing freely from the wound. He turned his head to see the bullet and tweezers on the ground next to him, and looked back when he felt Sherlock shift, moving John's hand to cover the wound whilst pulling off his coat and jacket and throwing them into the empty bathtub. He started to unbutton his shirt when he was stopped by a cold hand on his arm. 

 

"What are you doing?" John asked, his voice ragged and his throat painfully dry.

 

Sherlock gently pulled away and continued his work on the buttons, pulling the shirt free and tossing it to the side. "What needs to be done," he said with a furrowed brow, his eyes hard and determined. He took a breath and moved his arm until the delicate skin of his wrist was pressed against John's lips.

 

John's breath hitched in panic and his eyes closed when he felt the soft flutter of a pulse, and a shiver from Sherlock when his lips instinctively opened against his skin. His fangs descended, the sharp points grazing the skin ever so slightly until John's eyes widened in realisation of what was happening. He turned his head away from Sherlock and shut his eyes again tightly, not wanting his best friend to see the monster that he was. 

 

He waited for something -anything- to happen; a sharp pain across his jaw as Sherlock hit him; a shout as he recoiled and left the room in fear, but when Sherlock spoke, he sounded anything but afraid. 

 

A hand pressed to John's cheek and turned his head back towards Sherlock, a thumb stroking gently against his ear. 

 

"Trust me," Sherlock whispered, his voice softer than John had ever heard it. "I trust you, so trust me."

 

John opened his eyes with a shaky intake of breath as he looked up at the man above him. Sherlock was staring back at him with a look of concern, and not a single trace of fear, even as he looked into the now silver tinged eyes of his flatmate. He felt Sherlock press his wrist against John's lips again, and with a muffled sob, John let his fangs sink deep into Sherlock's skin. 

 

The sensation of skin breaking beneath his teeth was like nothing else, and John groaned and relished the feeling before pulling his fangs out just enough to let the blood flood his mouth and trickle down his throat. Sherlock gasped above him, his fist clenching and sending another fast pulse of blood past John's lips. 

 

John's fingers lifted to grasp Sherlock's arm, tightening when he heard Sherlock moan in what sounded like pleasure to John's ears, and he heard the detective's heart rate quicken when he pulled off and swiped his tongue over the puncture marks, healing them almost instantly and leaving behind two tiny reddened scars.

 

John looked up to see Sherlock panting heavily, his eyes half lidded and his pupils blown wide. He watched in tense anticipation as Sherlock moved over him to check the bullet wound again, finding a small round scar underneath the mess of dried blood. Sherlock smiled and laughed, sitting against the bath and letting his head fall back against the tub as he allowed his breathing to return to normal.

 

John let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and sat up too, willing his fangs to recede and his eyes to return to their usual cobalt blue as he stared at the man opposite him with a look of wonderment. He looked around the room with a grimace at the mess, and picked up the bullet, fiddling with it nervously as he tried to find the words he needed.

 

"I think we need to talk about this," he started lamely, sighing when Sherlock looked at him with an upturned eyebrow and a look of amusement. "Obviously, yes I know. Look, Sherlock, I know you're probably mad that I didn't tell you..."

 

"Why would I be mad?" Sherlock interrupted, a look of genuine confusion on his face.

 

John stared at him, then looked pointedly around the room. "You can't actually be that dense, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock huffed and moved to stand up, wincing at the glass embedded in his knees. "Neither can you. Did you really think you could keep something like this from me?"

 

John frowned, then stood when Sherlock made towards the doorway. "Hang on a minute, how long have you known?"

 

Sherlock looked down at the floor guiltily. "A while."

 

"Right. And how long is a while?"

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "Does it matter? The point is, I know, and now that it's out in the open, we can carry on as normal."

 

John laughed incredulously. "Are you serious? Do you honestly think that things can go back to normal? After this?" He gestured around the room, eyes falling to Sherlock's wrist. "After I..."

 

Sherlock swallowed and cleared his throat. "I don't see why not. Nothing's changed. You're still the same person who moved in five years ago."

 

John's eyebrows knitted together at Sherlock's words. To Sherlock, what they just did was probably just a friend helping out another friend, even if it was a little unorthodox. To John, however, it was so much more. Drinking bagged blood was very different to drinking live, even if it had been a long time for John, and drinking from a warm, living person was frequently considered quite a sexual activity amongst vampires. The endorphins released into the bloodstream were highly pleasurable; John had remembered that part clearly when he was turned. But Sherlock only seemed physically affected by it. He was known to ignore his 'transport' on a regular basis, and though he'd shown the signs of arousal, his mind didn't seem to know about it. That, or he simply didn't care.

 

John clenched his jaw at Sherlock's indifference; it could have been much worse, he supposed. At least he hadn't been tied up and sent off to Baskerville. He looked down at the ground and moved to the side, letting Sherlock passed him as he sighed and followed, going to the kitchen to grab the bin and cleaning supplies.

 

x

 

When John had spent half an hour trying to sweep up broken glass and wash blood from the walls, he sat down on the edge of the bath and laughed. He wasn't sure what exactly had happened over the past few hours -it all seemed to be a bit of a blur- but even for him, it all felt so surreal. Sherlock knew. He'd known for a long time apparently, and all these years he'd never said a word, never even hinted at knowing something so important about his best friend. He wasn't afraid, didn't even seem like it mattered, when John had been so careful not to give away his true nature. Sherlock had told him he trusted John, and he'd proved that with what he'd done not an hour ago; he'd been proving over the last five years apparently.

 

John's thoughts were interrupted by a sound in the next room, a soft moan that would have been inaudible to anyone else, but to John's sensitive hearing, it could have been next to his ear. John stilled and listened, hearing soft whimpers and the tell tale squeak of mattress springs, followed by a quickening breath and a long, draw out sigh before the room went silent. John's face flushed as he realised what he'd just heard coming from Sherlock's room, and he cleared his throat and busied himself with finishing the bathroom.

 

x

 

Another half an hour later, John walked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He flicked the kettle on and turned around to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, fully dressed with his skin flushed and his curls sticking up erratically. His fingers were steepled beneath his chin in his classic mind palace pose, but his eyes seemed to be flickering in thought, and John noticed that his hands were shaking slightly.

 

He took a few steps to stand in the kitchen doorway, and cleared his throat. Sherlock seemed to jump, and his eyes flew open to stare at John like a deer in headlights.

 

"I'm making tea, do you want a cup?" John asked, his voice carefully steady as he looked at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock stared back for a moment, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he inhaled shakily. He seemed to shake himself, schooling his face into an impassive expression and nodding with a grunt as his gaze focused anywhere but on John.

 

John watched him for another minute, noticing the way Sherlock's fingers gripped the leather of his chair, and the blush that John could see creeping up his neck. He turned back to the kitchen, took down two mugs and made a cup for each of them, then walked into the living room and put his mug down on the floor next to his chair, before moving to stand in front of Sherlock and holding out his cup, watching the detective take it from him with shaking hands.

 

Settling in his chair with a sigh, John picked up his mug and took a gulp of the boiling tea, letting it soothe his nerves as it burned down his throat. Sherlock was still purposefully not looking at John, and squirming in his chair uncomfortably.

 

"Is everything alright?" John asked, trying to act as if what had happened earlier hadn't.

 

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John momentarily before focussing on his tea. "Yes, I'm fine. I see that you're feeling better."

 

John nodded, even though Sherlock wasn't looking at him. "Yeah, yeah much better. Look, about that..."

 

"We don't need to discuss it, John." Sherlock said quickly, his fingers tightening around the mug.

 

"Yes, we do. I just wanted to say..." John started, the tremble in his voice betraying his emotions, "...thank you. What you did for me, that was... thank you, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together and his mouth opened as if he were going to speak, but he resolutely shut it and nodded, shifting on the chair.

 

"You seem uncomfortable, what is it?" 

 

Sherlock huffed and moved his hands to his knees, wincing as pain flared up again. John's eyes fell to the detective's fingers as he remembered Sherlock kneeling on the floor next to him in a pile of broken glass.

 

"I can help with that, if you like."

 

Sherlock's eyes shot towards John, his mouth open in shock. John frowned and looked at Sherlock questioningly, blanching when he saw the raised fabric of Sherlock's trousers.

 

"No! No, I meant... Shit, I meant your knees... the glass... not..."

 

A deep blush spread up Sherlock's cheekbones, and the detective swallowed around a lump in his throat. "I'm fine, thank you. I think I'll just go to bed."

 

Sherlock started to stand, falling back to the chair with a yelp when John moved to stand in front of him. 

 

"Shit, sorry, I..." John took a step back and lowered his gaze to the floor, trying to look as non threatening as he could. "I just want to help, Sherlock. I don't understand, you were fine a couple of hours ago. Are you..." John swallowed, taking a deep breath and looking back at Sherlock with a sadness in his eyes, "Are you afraid of me?"

 

Sherlock's eyes softened as he looked up at John, and he stood and shook his head, his brow creasing. He chewed on his bottom lip for a minute, and took a deep breath. "I think... I'm quite certain, actually... I've developed feelings for you. I'm not quite sure when it started, it's been going on for quite a while now, but after... earlier, I seemed to have a physical reaction to you that I've not experienced before, and it took me by surprise. I can't stop thinking about what happened and the thought that I almost lost you and what you did for me when you jumped in front of me and took that bullet; I'd most certainly be hospitalized if you hadn't, and I didn't thank you for that so I'll say it now. Thank you, John."

 

John held his breath through Sherlock's speech that seemed to come out of him in one fast breath. "I... I don't mean to be purposefully stupid here, but I don't want to assume something that I could get so disastrously wrong. You're telling me that you have feelings for me?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock stated, as if they weren't having a conversation that could change their lives completely.

 

"Are these... romantic feelings? Or-"

 

"Yes, John," Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes at the blond. 

 

"Do you want..." John asked quietly, not quite sure what he was asking.

 

Sherlock's eyes met John's in a moment of complete uncertainty and vulnerability. "I..."

 

John took a step forwards and closed the distance between them, close enough that he could feel the heat from Sherlock's body against his own. 

 

"Do you?" John repeated, his voice barely above a whisper as his hand lifted up to the nape of Sherlock's neck and pulled the younger man down slowly, pressing his lips against Sherlock's in the faintest touch of a kiss. 

 

Sherlock tensed for a second, and John had a horrifying moment of doubt until he felt Sherlock's lips open against his, and a small whimper that made John's heart skip a beat. John's other hand found its way to Sherlock's waist, pulling the detective against him and deepening the kiss. His tongue swiped against Sherlock's bottom lip gently, and John moaned when Sherlock's flicked out and pressed into his mouth tentatively. 

 

They broke apart after a minute, both trying to catch their breath as they panted into each other's mouths. John pressed his forehead against Sherlock's and smiled, unable to comprehend what he'd just done. It felt like a dream, something so utterly unreachable that now that he had Sherlock in his arms, there was nothing he couldn't do.

 

"Is this okay?" he breathed against Sherlock's perfect lips, his hands trembling where they rested on Sherlock's nape and waist. 

 

Sherlock exhaled shakily and closed his eyes. "Yes... I... yes, John." 

 

John pulled back to look into frightened, bright blue eyes. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock scoffed, his eyes rolling at the clichéd words, though his fear was evident in his voice. "I'm not afraid, John. Of you or of... this. I've wanted this for a while, and I’m not going to run from it now that I have you." 

 

 _I have you._ John's breath caught in his throat at the words, and he dropped the hand from Sherlock's nape to entwine their fingers together. 

 

"I think... we should go to your bedroom. Let me sort out the wounds on your knees, they must be sore." 

 

Sherlock nodded, the foreign sensation of a hand in his causing a shiver down his spine. John turned and walked to the bedroom with Sherlock trailing after him. 

 

Sherlock froze in the doorway, his head spinning at the thought of he and John sharing a bed. He'd never slept next to anyone before in his adult life, and the thought seemed overwhelmingly terrifying, until John turned towards him, walking backwards towards the bed and pulling Sherlock with him. He sat down and gestured for Sherlock to sit next to him on top of the covers.

 

"I need to look at the wounds, it would be easier with trousers off, but you can roll them up if you prefer. Or cover yourself with the quilt," John said gently, trying not to make Sherlock uncomfortable.

 

Sherlock sighed and raised an eyebrow at John. "Trousers off is fine. I trust that you're not going to do anything that I'm not comfortable with. I've told you before and I meant it, John. I trust you. Completely."

 

John couldn't stop the smile that tugged at his lips. "Okay, lie down on the bed and take these off," he muttered, tugging on the fabric lightly. He watched as Sherlock undid the buttons, his fingers unsteady and fumbling, before pulling them down and kicking them to the floor. He unbuttoned his shirt too to John's surprise, letting it fall to the floor as John's eyes fell to pale skin, faintly dusted with surprisingly light hair. He winced in sympathy at the small but plentiful wounds on both of Sherlock's knees.

 

"You should have let me look at this earlier, it must be painful," he scolded, leaning over to inspect the reddened skin.

 

"I barely noticed. Other things on my mind and such," Sherlock retorted, his hands gripping the sheets as John's fingers skimmed over his thighs in a comforting gesture, before moving lower and picking out a shard of glass that Sherlock had missed with an apologetic smile when Sherlock hissed in pain.

 

"Sorry," he breathed, as a small trickle of blood flowed from the small cut the shard had made. He leaned over further and pressed his lips to the cut without thinking, sucking lightly and moaning in pleasure at the sweet taste of Sherlock on his tongue. Sherlock gasped and froze, his eyes fixed on John's lips working against his skin, fascinated when John pulled back and the cut had healed over. John looked at Sherlock with a smile, silver tinged eyes blown wide with arousal at the taste. His fangs had descended again, and he was careful not to show Sherlock, not wanting to scare the detective.

 

John's tongue worked its way over both knees, healing all the small cuts in seconds and making Sherlock shudder with the sensation of a hot tongue lapping at his skin. When John sat up and turned his head, trying to will his fangs to recede, Sherlock reached his arm out and turned John's face back towards him. His fingers stroked across John's cheek as the blond resolutely kept his lips closed, until Sherlock stroked along his bottom lip with his thumb, interest clear in his eyes.

 

"Show me?" Sherlock asked in a small voice, his thumb pressing a little firmer against John's sealed lips.

 

John swallowed nervously and opened his mouth, allowing Sherlock to get a better look at the sharp canines that he'd felt in his skin earlier. Sherlock's pupils dilated at the sight, and he pressed his thumb against the tip of one fang experimentally, pulling back when his skin broke easily on the point with a hiss. John licked the droplet of blood from his lips, and grabbed Sherlock's hand, swiping over the pad of his thumb with his tongue and closing the small incision. 

 

"That must be handy," Sherlock muttered with a small sigh of pleasure.

 

"Not really. Doesn't work on myself, only humans," John replied, noticing the tent in Sherlock's boxers and blushing as he turned his head away.

 

Sherlock frowned and looked down, his face contorting in embarrassment as he pulled the cover up to hide himself. "Sorry, it happened before. Not quite sure why."

 

"It's fine," John said breathily, shifting uncomfortably on the bed in the same state as Sherlock. "Do you mind if I join you?" 

 

Sherlock inhaled with a shiver and shook his head, shuffling over on the mattress as John unbuttoned his jeans, pulling them and his shirt off and climbing in next to him. They lay side by side facing each other, Sherlock's hand reaching out to settle on John's jawline before the younger man pulled John in to press cool lips against his again. John's lips tasted of tea and the faintest trace of copper, and Sherlock's head swam at the intimacy of tasting his own blood on John's mouth. He moved closer, gasping when his cock pressed against John's through their underwear, and licked his way into John's mouth as he grew braver. 

 

John whimpered as he shifted his hips, and a spark of pleasure shot up his spine as he felt Sherlock do the same, rutting against him as the kiss deepened. He groaned into Sherlock's mouth as a bloom of copper burst over his tongue, and Sherlock whimpered but didn't pull away, instead grinding harder against John, feeling the building tingle of orgasm up his spine. The kiss broke as they both pulled back, and John's hands gripped at Sherlock's waist as his climax built. He threw his head back with a cry, fangs exposed as he felt himself tip over the edge, and Sherlock followed soon after, whimpering as the pleasure became too intense and he had to shuffle back.

 

They both lay panting, hands splayed across each other as they shivered together in the aftershocks of their orgasms. John lifted his head to kiss Sherlock's temple gently, and Sherlock sighed in contentment, his fingers tightening around John's waist as they both fell asleep together.

 

x

 

John woke to a heat so overpowering that for a moment he thought his bed was on fire; he sat up sharply, quickly realising that he wasn't in his own bed when Sherlock jolted awake next to him with a grunt as he was dislodged from John's body. 

 

"Sorry," John whispered, his mind quickly catching up on where he was. He cringed as he shuffled back down into the covers and felt the evidence of their activities from the previous night making his boxers stick uncomfortably to his skin. He sat up again, eliciting a sleepy grumble from Sherlock, before getting out of the bed and making his way into the bathroom, pulling off his ruined underwear and tossing it on the floor. He washed himself, and not wanting to get Sherlock out of bed, wet a wash cloth with warm water and took it back into the bedroom, and climbing back under the covers.

 

"Sherlock," he whispered, his fingers brushing back an errant curl from the detective's forehead. 

 

"Mmm," he replied non-committally turning onto his back and pulling the covers up to his chin.

 

"No, Sherlock, wake up. You need to wash that off before it dries," he muttered with a grimace, pulling down the covers and putting the wash cloth in Sherlock's hand. 

 

Sherlock frowned with his eyes still closed and passed it back. "You do it," he murmured sleepily, "...comfy."

 

John sighed and put the wet cloth on Sherlock's exposed chest. Sherlock's face twisted in a scowl as he opened his eyes and turned to look at John, lifting the wash cloth from his stomach and pulling down his underwear with no trace of embarrassment or insecurity. John couldn't help but let his eyes drift down to where Sherlock was now cleaning himself, the cloth covering most of him as he wiped the drying semen from around his cock. 

 

When he was done, Sherlock hoisted the covers back up and threw the cloth to the ground next to his underwear, turning to face away from John as he fell back to sleep.

 

x

 

The sunlight shone through the windows in a streak of bright light that seemed intent on hitting Sherlock right in the eyes, momentarily blinding him as he grunted in annoyance and flipped over. His eyes widened when he took in the sight before him; John was lying next to him, his face only inches away from Sherlock, and seemingly younger in his sleep. His hair was mussed and sticking up in short spikes, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from reaching out and stroking along John's jawline reverently. 

 

The blond smiled at the touch, his head pressing into Sherlock's fingers as his eyes slowly opened. The smile grew wider when his gaze focused on Sherlock, and he tilted his face to kiss at the fingers gently stroking over the stubbled line of his jaw. Sherlock huffed a laugh when John took Sherlock's fingertips between his teeth and nibbled playfully, and pulled them away to replace them with his mouth in a chaste kiss.

 

"Morning," Sherlock muttered against John's lips. John hummed in agreement and kissed Sherlock back, taking his bottom lip between his teeth to suckle gently. 

 

Sherlock moaned and put his arm around John, pulling back with a gasp when his hand brushed the naked skin of John's arse.

 

"Why are you naked?" he asked, his voice slightly panicked. "Why am I naked?" 

 

John laughed and lifted his fingers to stroke through soft curls. _God, how long I've wanted to do that._

 

"Relax, Sherlock. I got up in the night to clean up, and I bought you a wash cloth to clean yourself. I didn't touch you, don't worry," he assured, watching Sherlock visibly relax at John's words. 

 

"Okay," he muttered mostly to himself, flushing as John's fingers found their way to his waist. He shivered at the touch, goosebumps spreading over his skin like wildfire.

 

John smiled in affection and yawned, stretching out his muscles and rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. "We should get up. We can't spend all day in bed, no matter how tempting it sounds," he teased playfully, getting out of the bed naked and walking unashamedly to the bathroom. 

 

He could practically feel Sherlock's eyes on him the entire time.

 

X

 

The day dragged on with little to do; John went out to get some shopping whilst Sherlock sat at home, eyes glued to his laptop as he looked at God-knows-what on the internet. On the surface, it seemed like nothing had changed in the flat, but the air had a quality to it that seemed electric almost. 

 

Sherlock's fingers were tapping rapidly on the keys when John shuffled through the door with the shopping. Sherlock closed the laptop and stood, walking into the kitchen and flicking the kettle on. John turned and smiled, unpacking the bags and putting the food away in the cupboards. When he came to the final bag, he turned to Sherlock with a unsure expression.

 

"I meant to ask, now that you know, would you mind if I kept these in the fridge? They last longer if they're kept cold." Sherlock turned to look at what John was talking about, his eyes dropping to the blood bag in John's hand.

 

"I..." he started, frowning in confusion. "I didn't think you needed those anymore."

 

John mirrored Sherlock's expression and put the bag on the table. "What do you mean? Of course I need them. How else am I supposed to eat?"

 

Sherlock's face fell, and he turned his head in embarrassment. "Nothing. Forget about it, I misunderstood." 

 

"No, Sherlock, what did you mean? Tell me, please."

 

Sherlock took two mugs from the cupboard and prepared tea for them both, ignoring John as he moved to walk into the living room. John stopped him with an hand on his arm, turning Sherlock to face him and meeting his eyes. 

 

"Sherlock, tell me," he repeated, clenching his jaw as Sherlock looked down at the floor. 

 

"I just assumed... that you wouldn't need them anymore. It was stupid of me, and I'd like to forget about it if you don't mind."

 

John shook his head, undeterred by Sherlock's evasive answer. "Why would you assume that? I need blood to live, Sherlock. I thought you were quite aware of that by now."

 

"I know that, John! I'm not an idiot!" he snapped, yanking his arm free from John's grasp and in turn spilling the tea on the laminate. 

 

John let him go, taking a step back as he realised what Sherlock was so upset about. 

 

"You thought that it would be you," he breathed, more of a statement than a question. Sherlock sighed and slammed the mugs down on the table. "I couldn't do that to you, Sherlock. I could never ask that of you."

 

Sherlock laughed humourlessly and turned to John, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "You don't need to ask, John. I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it. You should know by now that I don't do anything that I don't want to do."

 

John took a step towards the detective, unsure what to make of Sherlock's words. He'd never fed from a human regularly, even at the beginning, he'd only taken what he'd needed and left, never coming back to the same person more than once. He wasn't sure if he could get enough of what he needed from Sherlock without harming him. Though it was true that live blood was more fulfilling than bagged, he didn't fully trust himself to not go too far. He couldn't bear the thought of losing Sherlock. 

 

He closed the distance between them, pulling Sherlock close and pressing their foreheads together. "If you want that, we can try it. But I can't promise that it'll work, Sherlock. I need to feed every other day at least. I don't know how your body would deal with that on such a regular basis. And then there's the pain aspect. It's not fair to ask that of you."

 

Sherlock swallowed and exhaled, his breath warm against John's face. He leaned down and pressed their lips together as a tear ran down over one sharp cheekbone. Pulling back with an annoyed exhale, he laughed bitterly and wiped at his face, only to have his hand replaced by John's. His thumb wiped away the tears that continued to fall, and John smiled at the annoyed look on Sherlock's face.

 

"Do you think this is funny, John? God, how do people do this? Is this what's it's always like?"

 

John shook his head, and pulled Sherlock along with him towards John's bedroom up the stairs. "It can be overwhelming for a lot of people, but when we've waited as long as we have, it's understandable to react this way. Come on," he urged, squeezing Sherlock's fingers with his own.

 

"What are we doing?" Sherlock asked with a sniffle that John could help but find utterly adorable.

 

"We're going up to my room, I'm going to lay you on my bed, and I'm going to kiss every inch of that beautiful skin of yours," John breathed in a shaky voice.

 

An involuntary shiver worked its way up Sherlock's spine, and he couldn't help but smile to himself.

 

x

 

The click of the bedroom door was loud in the quiet of the room; John made his way to the bed, pulling off the jacket he was still wearing after he'd got home, and placing it neatly on the back of the chair in his room. He kicked off his shoes and socks, and turned to Sherlock, who seemed frozen in place, his eyes following John's fingers as they undid button after button on the checked shirt, and John smiled at the small intake of breath when he let the shirt fall from his shoulders. 

 

Sherlock's eyes followed as John's hands dropped to the belt at his waist, undoing it slowly, teasingly, sliding it from the loops to drop to the floor with a clink of metal. Sherlock swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, realising how dry his mouth had become, and when John unzipped the jeans and stepped out of them, Sherlock instinctively stepped forwards and ran long, callused fingers up the length of John's chest, stopping at the scar on his left shoulder, and frowning at the scar left from the bullet the day before.

 

"I didn't think that this would scar," he muttered almost to himself, his fingers pressing gently around the small circular mark.

 

"We do scar. It's not like it is in films, Sherlock. Our hearts beat, we can die quite easily, though it's true we are a little more... durable, than humans," he laughed, savouring the feeling of Sherlock's fingers as they explored his chest. "We heal faster, and our saliva has healing properties too, as well as our blood, but it just accelerates the healing. We also don't carry diseases, which is definitely one of the perks."

 

"So, if we were to... we wouldn't need to use..."

 

John smiled at Sherlock fondly, finding his embarrassment quite endearing. "No, we're safe. No condoms needed."

 

"Fascinating," Sherlock breathed, his fingers trailing down John's bare chest, thumbs skimming over the small bump of John's nipples. John's breath hitched, his head falling back slightly at the sensation, and he pressed his chest further into Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock smiled, repeating the motion and gaining the same reaction. "Even more fascinating..."

 

John laughed and grabbed Sherlock's wrists, lowering his hands to his sides whilst he started working on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. His eyes followed the trail of exposed pale skin, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, wanting nothing more than to lean in and kiss down the path he was creating. He pushed the shirt off, and lowered his hands to Sherlock's trouser buttons, looking up at Sherlock in askance and smiling when the detective nodded above him. He made quick work of the buttons and divested Sherlock of his trousers and socks, and pulled the detective to the bed, pushing him down to lay on top of the covers.

 

"You're so beautiful, every inch of you, Sherlock. Perfection," John praised, before joining Sherlock on the bed and settling atop his feet near the bottom of the bed. 

 

He leaned down, his fingers skimming down Sherlock's thighs in a whisper of a touch, making Sherlock's skin break out in goosebumps. Lowering his head to Sherlock's shins, he pressed his lips gently in a soft kiss, working his way up the entire expanse of skin until he reached the fabric of Sherlock's boxers. He felt the detective tense beneath him, shivering lightly in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room, and ignoring Sherlock's rapidly hardening cock, worked his way slowly down the other leg, lifting it to press tickling kisses on the back of Sherlock's knee. Sherlock keened and arched above him, and John made a mental note to come back to that spot at a later date.

 

When he'd worked his way to the tips of Sherlock's toes, taking the end of one in between his teeth and nipping gently, pulling the sweetest sound from Sherlock's lips, he crawled his way up Sherlock's body until his head was in line with his abdomen. John's hands rested on Sherlock's hipbones, and his tongue darted out to lick a path around the circle of his navel, dipping in a few times and making Sherlock whimper beautifully. 

 

He worried the taut skin of Sherlock's stomach with his teeth, nibbling across and up and leaving a trail of wet kisses up Sherlock's body until he reached the gentle curve of Sherlock's pectoral muscles. His hands moved from Sherlock's hips to his arms, lifting them and pinning them above his head, before grinning maliciously and taking the hardened skin of Sherlock's nipple between his teeth and biting down gently. 

 

Sherlock's entire body tensed below him, and the detective gave a shout of John's name when the blond moved across and took the other nipple into his mouth, giving it the same treatment. He felt Sherlock's cock visibly throb underneath him, pressed against his stomach as Sherlock tried to rut up against John. John pinned his hips down with his legs and tutted, moving higher to kiss and nip the skin of Sherlock's sternum and the perfect pale column of his neck. 

 

Sherlock was panting now, his chest heaving and his fingers clenching above his head. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's wrist slightly and moved to mouth at Sherlock's throat, taking a moment in inhale the sweet scent of the brunet's skin; a mixture of sweat, coffee and biscuits lingered on his skin, and John licked a path up to the shell of Sherlock's ear, nibbling gently on the lobe.

 

"John... I can't... I want you to..." Sherlock stammered, his head thrown back against the pillow and his body now covered in a light sheen of sweat, still shivering from John's lips and teeth.

 

John continued to bite gently at Sherlock's neck, not breaking the skin, but just reddening it between his teeth. It took every ounce of willpower he had to keep his fangs from descending, and he growled when he felt Sherlock press up into him, rubbing his clothed cock against John's desperately.

 

"I want you, Sherlock. I want to take you, to claim you, _fuck_ I want to own you."

 

"Then do it..." the detective muttered, his voice betraying his desperation.

 

"Leave them there," John whispered, squeezing Sherlock's wrists meaningfully and sitting back on his heels, tucking his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock's black boxers and pulling them down his legs, tossing them to the floor. Sherlock's cock looked painfully hard, red and dripping and John leaned down, swiping his tongue through the clear liquid that was leaking onto his skin. Sherlock cried out as hot breath ghosted over the tip, desperate for some kind of touch until John lifted his legs and held them up by his thighs, and licked a stripe from the top of Sherlock's arse to his perineum, making him shudder and buck under John's ministrations.

 

John's fingers tightened on Sherlock's skin, pushing the detective up further as he continued lapping at the soft, untouched hole, groaning at the taste as he stiffened his tongue and pushed inside. Sherlock made a guttural sound, and John swore he heard the wood of the headboard creak as he wrapped his fingers around the posts and squeezed. When John felt Sherlock start to relax beneath his touch, he lowered Sherlock's legs and leaned over, stroking over the softened muscles with his finger and pressing his lips against Sherlock's.

 

Sherlock groaned at the taste of himself on John's tongue, blushing at how much he enjoyed it and taking John's bottom lip between his teeth to nip at lightly. John growled playfully and reached over to open the drawer of his night stand, pulling out a half empty bottle of lubricant and sitting up on Sherlock's legs. He took a shaky breath and looked at the bottle in his hands, then down at Sherlock with a smile.

 

"Are you sure this is what you want? If this is going too fast..."

 

"I'm sure," Sherlock assured, lifting his hips up in invitation.

 

John huffed a laugh and coated the fingers of his left hand in the lube, rubbing them together to warm it up for the man below him. Sherlock watched as John's hand disappeared from sight, his head hitting the pillow with an aborted cry when he felt a finger breach him slowly. John held his breath and waited for Sherlock to relax, before he slowly starting thrusting, his mind reeling at how tight Sherlock felt around him. He continued to work Sherlock open slowly, gradually adding a second and then a third finger, curling them upwards to stroke against Sherlock's prostate with precision. 

 

"Oh! Oh my... John! What the...fuck..." Sherlock cried, his uncharacteristic swearing taking John by surprise and making him laugh. 

 

"I take it you like that?" he purred, repeating the action and almost falling off of Sherlock when the man bucked violently beneath him. 

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, his eyes rolling back in his head when John slowed his stroking but increased the pressure. He gasped, fingers gripping tighter until his knuckles turned white.

 

"Stop! Stop, please, John," he begged, his eyes wide and almost completely black with arousal."I won't last if you continue, and I really don't want our first time to be cut short because of my lack of control over my own body." 

 

John relented, removing his fingers gently and reaching to pick up his shirt from the floor, wiping his hand on it with a grimace. He shuffled and worked his underwear down and off, and moved to hold himself over Sherlock, fitting between his legs like he was made to be there. He kissed a path down the flawless skin of Sherlock's neck, burying his face in the soft curls behind his ear and lining himself up as he inhaled the addictive scent of the other man.

 

Sherlock kept his hands on the headboard, holding his breath as he felt the first press of John's cock against him. John increased the pressure slowly but surely, rocking back and forth in short thrusts as Sherlock's body relented and he was engulfed in tight, wet, perfect heat. Sherlock cried out at the burn of the intrusion, the pain and pleasure merging together and overwhelming his nerves as he tried to adjust to such a foreign sensation.

 

"Wait..." he muttered, willing himself to relax and taking deep breaths. He could feel John tensing above him, holding himself still when it must've been agony to do so. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, lifting his head to press his lips to John's in a deep kiss as John started to move.

 

John thrust slowly at first, keeping a steady rhythm and stroking fingers through Sherlock's sweat soaked curls as he licked his way past Sherlock's lips, flicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Sherlock groaned and lifted his hips to meet John's thrusts, matching his pace with perfection after a few minutes of movement. John pulled back and pulled Sherlock's thighs to rest on his, tilting his hips up and as a result hitting Sherlock's prostate with every other thrust. 

 

The moans slipping past Sherlock's lips were positively sinful, sending shocks of pleasure up John's spine and quickening his pace when he felt the first burn of orgasm low in his abdomen. He leaned over, pushing Sherlock's legs over his shoulder as he nibbled at Sherlock's clavicle, his fangs descending on instinct with Sherlock pinned and helpless beneath him. He panted against Sherlock's skin, lifting his head to meet Sherlock's blue eyes with his own, the silver tinge seeming to glow in the growing darkness of the room as the sun started to set outside. 

 

Sherlock exhaled shakily and his pupils visibly dilated as John's lips parted and exposed his fangs. "Yes..." he breathed, his voice cracking and his breath hitching. He turned his head to the side meaningfully, his chest heaving like he'd just ran a marathon and he whimpered when he felt the sharp points of John's fangs scrape across his skin. 

 

His eyes widened when John's lips clamped down on a patch of skin just below his ear, and he bucked upwards as he felt his skin break beneath sharp fangs with ease. He cried out as his cock jerked between their bodies in a sharp, powerful orgasm, pushed higher into ecstasy when John growled against his neck and bit down harder as his own climax crashed over him, and he spilled into Sherlock's body as Sherlock's sweet blood filled his mouth and poured down his throat. He continued to thrust shallowly into Sherlock's body, riding out the last waves of orgasm and pulling out gently when it became too uncomfortable. 

 

Sherlock's hands fell from the headboard as he groaned, his breathing ragged and his body aching and drenched from head to toe in sweat. His hands moved to cup the back of John's head as the blond continued to suckle lightly, the feeling utterly exquisite and Sherlock never wanted him to stop. He moaned when John gently dislodged his fangs and licked over the wounds, and pulled John's bloodied lips against his in a passionate kiss. The taste of copper filled his mouth as John kissed him back, and Sherlock sighed and wiggled on the bed, grimacing when he felt John's release start to drip down his thigh.

 

"Well, that was... satisfactory," Sherlock said, smiling when he saw John's eyebrows almost reach his hairline.

 

"Satisfactory? Is that the best word you could think to describe what just happened, Sherlock?"

 

"Well," he mused, seeming to actually scan his mind for a better word," I suppose, enjoyable would work too. Or would you prefer to be praised? John, you were simply fantastic! Brilliant! Amazing! Elementary!" 

 

John sat up and pursed his lips, and heaved a put upon sigh. "Well, I suppose if you weren't entirely satisfied, I'll just have to try harder next time..." 

 

Sherlock's eyes widened, telling John all he needed to know about Sherlock's true feelings on their activities. He laughed and shifted in the bed, his fingers finding Sherlock's nipple and pinching playfully. Sherlock gasped and almost choked, his cock giving a feeble twitch against his stomach. 

 

John noticed, smiling and letting his hand drop down to stroke Sherlock's half hard cock. Sherlock whimpered and dropped his head back down to the pillow, clenching his eyes and hissing through his teeth when the sensation was almost too much. 

 

"You'll be the death of me, John Watson," he muttered, losing himself to John's touch.

 

John laughed and lowered himself down to sit between Sherlock's legs. "Not just yet."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos make me smile, let me know if you enjoyed it!


End file.
